Beyond Eden

19

The sirens were shrill. They pounded into her head. She hated them. She wanted to get away from them but she couldn’t seem to move. Someone was squeezing her hand, she felt his fingers suddenly, warm fingers, blunt. A man was speaking softly and gently to her, but he was insistent, he wouldn’t stop. He was like the sirens. She wanted to tell him to be quiet, but she couldn’t seem to get the words to form in her mind. She didn’t at first understand what he was saying, but she recognized the pattern, the repetition, and despite herself, she began to pay attention to him, looking to his voice to force her outward toward him.

“Do you know who you are?”

She opened her eyes. No, just her left eye. Her right eye wouldn’t move. It was a young man speaking to her, his face very close to hers. His eyes were very blue and his ears were big. She thought he was Irish. She realized then she couldn’t breathe.

She gasped for breath and the pain seared through her. There was only pain, no air.

“It’s all right. I know you’re having trouble. Just take real shallow breaths. No, no, don’t panic. Shallow breaths. Yes, that’s right. I think you’ve got a collapsed lung. That’s why we’ve got that oxygen mask over your face. Just breathe, shallow and easy. Good. Now, do you know who you are?”

She focused on the mask that covered her nose and mouth. But it hurt so much. She kept trying, and she got air, but the pain nearly sent her into madness. He asked her again who she was. She was her, and she was here, and she didn’t know what was going on, what had happened, except she hurt and could barely breathe.

“Do you know your name? Please, tell me. Who are you? Do you know who you are?”

“Yes, I’m Lindsay.” God, it hurt to say those words, hurt so much she wanted to yell with it, but she couldn’t. She whimpered, fear sharpening the sound, and the man said quickly, his voice calm and low, “Just take shallow breaths. Don’t try to do anything else. Just breathe, that’s all you have to do. Do you understand me? That’s an oxygen mask over your face to help you. Don’t fight it; let it help you. We think you’ve got a collapsed lung. That’s why it hurts so much. But you’ve got to stay awake and pay attention, all right?”

God, it hurt so much. She tried to hold her breath, to stave off the horrible jabbing pain, but that didn’t work either. He was speaking to her again. Why had he repeated the same thing? Did he think she was stupid?

“I know you hurt, but hang in there. We’re nearly to the hospital and they’re waiting for you. Don’t worry. Just keep taking those little breaths. I’m glad to meet you, Lindsay. I’m Gene. Just lie still. We’ll be at the hospital very soon now. No, don’t try to move.”

“What happened?” It hurt so much to speak. And talking through the white plastic mask made her feel like she was speaking from a long way away.

“There was some sort of explosion and you were hit by falling debris.”

“Am I going to die… collapsed lung?”

“Oh, no, not you. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Taylor. Please call Taylor.”

“Yes, I will, I promise. No, don’t try to move. I’ve got an IV in your arm. We don’t want you to rip it out. Just keep breathing.”

“There were so many screams.”

“No one else was hurt, but everyone was scared. You were standing right next to that fake rigging when it blew. Tell me again. Who are you?”

“I was there because I’m Eden.”

He frowned, but she didn’t see it. It hurt too much and she didn’t want him to see her lose control. She turned her head away from him. The pain continued. She’d never imagined before how it would feel not to be able to breathe. For every small intake there was such pain that her whole body shook with it.

“How is she, Gene?”

“She’s doing fine, at least I hope to God she is. The pain’s bad, but she’s hanging in there.” He turned away from the driver to her. “I’m sorry, Eden, but we can’t give you anything for the pain yet. The trauma team has to check you out first. Just hold on, hold on. Squeeze my fingers, think about my fingers and squeeze when you hurt real bad. We’re almost there, almost there.” Gene wondered if Taylor was her husband. Dear God, the man would be in for a shock when he saw his wife. She was a model. He looked at the right side of her face. It was difficult to tell how bad it was smashed because of all the blood. He held her hand more tightly. Gene O’Mallory wanted her to be all right. He wanted it very much.

There were six people standing over her, three men and three women. They were cutting off her clothes, speaking to each other, jabbing at her, prodding and poking, but through it all, there was someone’s hand on her forearm gently stroking and there was a soft woman’s voice with that stroking, saying over and over, “It’s going to be all right. You’re here with us now and we’ll make sure you’re okay. Do you understand me, Lindsay? It will be all right.”

Someone else said, “She’s that fashion model, Eden. First things first, but, Elsie, call Dr. Perry. Tell him to get over here on the double.”

Elsie said, “Gene called him from the ambulance. Perry’s on his way.”

Lindsay felt cold on her skin. She knew somewhere in her mind that she was naked, just as she had been so long ago in Paris. But she felt too much pain to care. Just to take a single breath was beyond anything she could ever have imagined. But the gentle stroking on her forearm continued and she tried to concentrate on it.

A man was very close to her face. He said, “Lindsay? Good, listen to me now. You’ve got a collapsed lung. A broken rib punctured it. So we’ve got to cut a little incision over here between your ribs—near your side, yes, right here—and stick in a tube. We’ll hook it up to a lung machine and it will reinflate your lung. It won’t hurt. It’ll all be over in just a few minutes and you’ll be able to breathe again without the pain. Okay? You understand?”

The fingers paused on her forearm.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Okay, let’s get it done, guys.”

Five minutes later, Lindsay took a breath that didn’t feel like she was going to die. She even managed a smile at the man bending over her.

“Better?”

“Yes, much better.”

“Now, you’ve got two broken ribs. We’ll leave them alone, but they’re going to hurt for a while. We’ve been giving you morphine through the IV. Do you have any more pain?”

It was odd, but she didn’t. “My face?”

“Your face—yes, Dr. Perry’s here and he’s going to take over now.”

The gentle fingers on her forearm stopped and Lindsay felt panic. “Where are the fingers?”

Someone said, “What’s she talking about?”

“What’s going on?”

“Oh, she means Debra. Deb, get back over here!”

The fingers were on her arm again. She closed her eyes.

It was all right. The voice came again, soft and warm.

Dr. Perry identified himself. He was a plastic surgeon and he specialized in facial reconstruction, he said. They were going to take her to CT scan and then they’d see exactly what the problems were. She wasn’t to worry. If she felt any pain, she was to sing out.

Lindsay was fully prepared to sing, but the pain she felt was so slight compared to what she’d already endured, she didn’t say anything.

Time passed. Debra didn’t leave her. Lindsay said to her, “Taylor. He’s my fiancé. Could you call him?”

“After I see you safe into surgery, Lindsay. Then I’ll call him, I promise. Give me his number.”

Dr. Perry was back and he spoke gently and slowly. “You’re lucky, Ms. Foxe. The flesh on your right cheek isn’t very damaged, which means little to no scarring. However, the blows you took smashed the bones here and here and here.” He lightly pointed to his own face to show her. “We need to go in right now and fix them. You’ll be good as new in three weeks.”

“Can I see?”

“I don’t think you should.”

Lindsay thought about that. The right side of her face was numb. She raised her right hand, but Debra grabbed it and forced it back to her side. She leaned close. “No, Lindsay, don’t. Just lie still, that’s it.”

Dr. Perry’s voice came again. “I’ll need you to sign the surgery consent forms, Ms. Foxe.”

She did. Within fifteen minutes she was being wheeled to surgery. She felt no pain. Her head was cloudy. She wasn’t scared.

The explosion had happened at twelve-thirty.

She was in surgery by three-thirty.

Demos stood in the hospital corridor, leaning against the wall near the door to what would be her private room, once she came out of surgery, once she came out of recovery.

It would be some time now before she was out of surgery. The surgery was on her face, being performed by a Dr. Perry, one of the top plastic surgeons in the country, the nurse had assured him, not once but four times, one of the very best, and he’d said the bones were situated ideally to be reconstructed and slipped back into their proper place and they weren’t to worry, which sounded disgusting to Demos. But why, Demos had wondered, why operate on her face now?

The nurse was patient with him, explaining that if they hadn’t done it immediately, there would be swelling that would preclude doing it for a week, at least. Lindsay had agreed, naturally.

“But how could she agree?”

“She was conscious, Mr. Demos. Dr. Perry did an immediate CT scan on her face and her head. You’ll have to speak to him, Mr. Demos. But she should be out of surgery around seven o’clock and then it’s recovery for about an hour. Why don’t you go have dinner?”

Demos and Glen went to the hospital cafeteria and stared at each other over open-faced roast-beef sandwiches.

“I’ll never forget that damned phone call as long as I live,” Glen said, his hands shaking.

They’d gotten the hysterical call from one of the ad-agency people at precisely ten minutes to one. They’d gotten here as fast as they could, but they hadn’t seen Lindsay. It wasn’t allowed. Everything was being done for her. Not to worry. Demos had filled out paperwork on her. Then he’d realized he had to call Taylor. Let Taylor deal with her family, with Sydney. He was engaged to her, let him do it. Demos knew Lindsay’s number by heart. He’d started to punch out the buttons, then stopped. He looked at those numbers, and they didn’t mean anything to him.

“Glen, help.”

Glen had shoved him aside and quickly pressed the numbers.

Two rings and then, “Hello, Taylor here.”

“Taylor, this is Glen.”

“Yeah, Glen. What’s up?”

“Oh, God, Taylor, you’ve got to get here right now.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Where’s Demos? What’s going on?”

Glen had nearly thrown the phone to Demos. “Taylor, this is Vinnie. There’s been an accident and Eden’s hurt. Hurry, man, get here now. I don’t know anything, just hurry.”

Demos hung up the phone and leaned his cheek against the cold steel. He heard a man say, “Does anyone know a Lindsay or an Eden?”

“I do,” Glen said.

“I was with her in the ambulance. She asked me to call Taylor. I’ve been asking around, trying to find out his phone number, but nobody knows. Do you know who he is?”

“Yes, we know,” Demos said. “I just called him.”

“Her face,” the young man said. “She’s so beautiful. Will she live? Has anyone said? Her collapsed lung?”

“She’ll be fine,” Demos said, praying like a demon as he said the words.

Twenty minutes later, Taylor was running into the emergency room, pale and looking more terrified than a man should ever look.

“We don’t know anything yet,” Glen said quickly. “They’re fixing a collapsed lung, at least someone told us about that, but then there’s her face—”

“Her face? What the hell happened to her face?”

“She was smashed.”

“Jesus,” Taylor said, unable to take it in, just standing there frozen. Then he burst into action. “Where is she? Who can I talk to?” He didn’t wait, but walked quickly to the nurses’ station.

The head emergency-room nurse, Ann Hollis, was sixty, tough, and more seasoned than a four-star general. She saw the man coming toward her, saw his fear, and readied herself for the outbreak. Screaming, raw, and impotent anger, outward fury, the rage brought on by the helplessness of it all. To her utter surprise, when he spoke, his voice was calm and low.

“I would appreciate your help—” He looked at her name tag. “Yes, Ms. Hollis. Lindsay or Eden is her name. I understand there was an accident and she’s being treated. I’m her fiancé. Please tell me what’s going on. This is very difficult.”

And Ann Hollis responded to him with the truth. “I will tell you what I know. First of all, stop worrying. The trauma team worked on her and they’re the best. You stay here and I’ll go check and find out what’s happening. All right?”

Taylor nodded and she left him. He didn’t move. Demos and Glen came over. No one said anything.

Nurse Hollis patted Taylor’s arm. “Two broken ribs, a collapsed left lung, which they reinflated.”

“How’s that done?”

“A small incision between two ribs and a tube is inserted that’s in turn connected to a lung machine. It makes breathing easier for her. Contusions and lacerations, but those aren’t all that bad. Then there’s her face.” Again she touched her hand to his arm. “It’s impossible to say right now because Dr. Perry just took her into surgery. Since she’s a model, he didn’t wait to operate.”

Taylor didn’t say anything. He was trying not to shake. Nurse Hollis patted his arm again.

“As soon as I can find out how the surgery is going, I’ll call you. Please go sit down. I know it’s difficult. But you must try to stay calm. She won’t die. Her face will heal. Dr. Perry is one of the best in facial reconstruction in the city. She’s Eden the model, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve seen her picture many times. She’s quite beautiful and she will be again.”

“Thank you. She is. She’s also a lot more than that—she’s—”

She wanted to take his hand but she didn’t. “I understand, Mr. Taylor. I will tell you as soon as I know something more.” He nodded and she knew he was fighting for control. She hated to see such pain. She hated to see this hidden, deep pain, this completely controlled pain. Sometimes it was better to shriek and curse all the doctors and nurses and rail against God and fate. But this man would always try to control himself and circumstances around him.

Ann Hollis smiled at him, and now she patted his arm again. The poor young woman was a model—not anymore, Ann Hollis thought. Oh, no, not unless she was very lucky indeed. She’d seen the young woman’s face. They hadn’t cleaned it yet, and there was nothing but dried blood and bone and matted blood-dried hair. Yes, it would be difficult to be beautiful when your face was smashed.

She watched the man Taylor turn away and walk back into the waiting lounge with two other men.

Lindsay wished she could throw a rock at the light. It was bright and it hurt her eyes. Why was it on? She hadn’t turned it on. Why didn’t someone turn it off? She didn’t want to open her eyes. She didn’t want to see anything; she didn’t want to be or do anything. She wanted to stay buried deep and warm within herself, within the warm darkness. It was secure here, except for that damned light. She knew, somehow, that if she opened her eyes she would regret it.

Still, the light was there, brighter now, and there was a voice along with it, a woman’s voice, urgent and hoarse-sounding, saying over and over, “ Lindsay, Lindsay, wake up now, wake up now. Come on, you can do it. Wake up.”

“No,” she said, and even that one small word was difficult. Her throat was dry and to the point of pain.

“Here, I’m putting a straw in your mouth. Try to suck some water. You need it.”

How did the woman know that? She sucked and felt the water fill her mouth and trickle down her throat. It was wonderful until she swallowed. A shock of pain went through her, squeezing the breath out of her, making her tighten and shrink and shudder with its force.

“Oh, God.”

“I know it hurts. I’ll give you more painkiller very soon now. You’ve got to get over the anesthesia first. I need to see how your brain is working.” There was a smile in the woman’s voice; then she said, “Please open your eyes for me.”

“The light. It hurts.”

The light disappeared. Lindsay opened her eyes. The room was in shadows. There was a woman in white standing over her. There were other people in the room, she could hear them. She couldn’t see them, but she could hear them. Their breathing, a few moans.

“That’s good. Now, tell what you see.”

“You. I see you and you’re wearing white and you’re pretty.”

“Thank you. Now, don’t be frightened. You came out of surgery and you’re in the recovery room. You pulled through everything great. Dr. Perry will be in to see you in the morning. He said you’ll be gorgeous again. Right now, you look like a Q-Tip—your head is all bandaged up and that’s why you can’t open your mouth very wide. The bandages are to keep everything immobile. Do you understand? Good. Now, I want you to count some fingers for me. Four? Excellent. And now? Good, Lindsay. Very good.”

“My ribs hurt.”

“I know. And they’ll hurt for quite a good while yet. But the painkiller will help immensely. Dr. Shantel will be here in a moment to talk to you. Just hang in there and then we’ll give you some more painkiller very soon.”

“Taylor. Where’s Taylor?” It was so hard to talk. She felt the swath of bandages for the first time. Her head felt tight. It hurt to try to open her mouth, even a little bit.

“He’s here. I tried to keep him out but he threatened to break all my moving parts if I didn’t let him in.” The nurse leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, he’s a real cutie. If he has a brother, I sure would appreciate an introduction.”

The nurse moved aside. Lindsay felt him take her hand. Then his fingers were on her bare forearm, light and gentle, Taylor’s fingers. Odd that he was doing just what Debra had done. She wondered if they’d told him to touch her, to keep human contact.

His face was right above hers. His look was serious and it frightened her, but his voice was soft and low. “Hello, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine. Jesus, don’t ever give me a scare like that again. Here’s your doctor. I’ll be right here. It’ll be all right.”

Dr. Shantel, a woman who was nearly as tall as Lindsay and tanned from a recent vacation to Maui, said, “Stay, Mr. Taylor. Hold her hand. You’re quite a calming influence. And we want her calm as she comes out of the anesthesia.” To Lindsay she introduced herself, then said quietly, “You’re very lucky. I’ll take care of all of you except your face. That’s Dr. Perry’s area. Now, your ribs aren’t bandaged. They’ll mend faster just left alone. We’ve stitched up some cuts on your shoulders and chest and neck. Nothing, really. Practically no scarring. You’re just fine now. You’ll be with us for a while. I want you to rest and I want you to hold your head very still.”

Dr. Shantel looked at the bandages wrapped around the young woman’s head and face. “Your face will be all right. You’ve come out of the anesthesia well. It’s time for some more painkiller, and then you can have a good night’s sleep.”

“Taylor?”

“I’m here, Lindsay. Here’s some medication for you. No, I’m not leaving you.”

He watched the nurse inject medicine into the IV in her left arm. He stroked his fingers over her right forearm, the way the nurse Debra had told him. He wanted to cry.

The nurse said quietly, “I understand you’re her fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what. I’ll speak to the nursing staff on the fourth floor. No reason why you can’t stay with her if you want to. We’ll have another bed moved in there. Does Miss Foxe have other family you need to call?”

Taylor just stared at her. Miss Foxe. Lindsay Foxe.

He said aloud, “Foxe. Her name’s Lindsay Foxe. It’s a nice name.”

The nurse looked at him curiously. “You don’t have to worry about any paperwork. Mr. Demos provided all the insurance information.”

It was exactly nine o’clock at night when he remembered. He was alone with her in her private room. There was the soft hissing sound of the lung machine, nothing else, save perhaps his own breathing. He remembered. Sharp memories, utterly clear and brutal. He jerked with the knowledge.

Lindsay Foxe.

The young girl who’d been in the cubicle in the emergency room next to his at St. Catherine’s Hospital in April, nine years ago, the young girl who had been raped by her sister’s husband—a bloody Italian prince—and who had screamed and screamed and fought the men who were also doctors. He remembered hearing how those doctors had spoken about her and to her and what they’d done to her. He shook his head. It was beyond anything. And now that young girl was here and she’d grown up and he loved her and she was going to be his wife.

Lindsay Foxe. Jesus, he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t seem to accept it—the chance of it happening; but then there was the gut feeling that it was somehow fate. Taylor shook his head. He was losing it. Lindsay Foxe.

No wonder she’d changed her name when she’d become a model. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to tell him what her real name was. She’d said something about not wanting him to hate her. She’d only tried to protect herself. From everyone and then from him. When would she have told him? When would she have decided to trust him enough?

Jesus. He thought of Sydney di Contini, La Principessa, Lindsay’s half-sister. It had been her husband who had raped Lindsay, and Sydney, that sophisticated bitch he’d met for the first time four days before, had been the one who’d shot him.

Taylor saw she was sleeping. He called Enoch, speaking very softly, and told him what had happened. And then he said, “I need a favor, Enoch.”

“You got it, Taylor.”

“A serious favor, one that you can’t ever talk about, even to Sheila.”

“What’s going on?”

Taylor told him. “Yeah, that’s right. Only French newspapers, no American, they’re not necessary.” He gave him the exact day. Then he hung up. He looked at Lindsay. Her breathing was shallow, her skin was flushed. The lung machine—looking for the world like a blue briefcase—hissed and bubbled. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the machine and picturing again that young girl, wheeled out on a gurney past where he sat waiting for a doctor to see to his arm. So young she’d been, so pathetic, and so completely alone. No one there for her, no one.

And he realized in that instant how much she had to love him. After all that had happened to her, she’d still come to him. She’d trusted him with her body, she’d trusted him not to hurt her. Who cared that she hadn’t yet told him her name? It didn’t matter. He leaned his forehead on her hand. He prayed silently.

It was nearly midnight when Sydney arrived.

“My God,” she said from the doorway.

“Yes,” he said, looking at her with new eyes. “Speak quietly. She’s sleeping.” Sydney nodded and came into the room and slipped out of the full-length Russian sable coat. She was wearing a long black dress beneath, with no sleeves, little front, and no back. She was wearing diamonds—a necklace, earrings, bracelet. Her hair was piled on top of her head and she looked exquisite and expensive. He wished she would fall out the window.

“What happened?”

“It was at a photo shoot in Washington Square. They’d built a ski lift and it exploded. She was standing right there, evidently. The cops and the fire department are working on it. How did you find out?”

“Well, you didn’t call me, that’s for sure.”

“Keep your voice down. It’s possible I didn’t call you because I don’t know where you live.”

“Even if you’d known, you wouldn’t have called, would you, Taylor? Oh, just forget it. It was on TV and I happened to see my sister being lifted into an ambulance.” She walked to the windows, fidgeting with an emerald ring on her right hand.

Sydney turned to look at him. He was pale but it didn’t diminish the fact that he also looked mean and angry and hard as nails, his eyes narrowed on her face. He was holding Lindsay’s hand, his strong and hard, hers pale and limp.

“Ah, so she’s told you how I’m the wicked half-sister.”

“No, she’s hardly told me anything at all, as a matter of fact. She hadn’t yet told me her last name. The hospital needed it and Demos told them.”

Sydney just looked at him. He could practically hear her thinking and sorting through things. Finally, “You remembered the old scandal? Good God, it was years ago. Or did Demos tell you about that too?”

“Actually, Demos didn’t have to. I just happened to be in the same emergency room in Paris when Lindsay was brought in. I’d been hit and knocked off my motorcycle, and my arm was broken. I’ll never forget it as long as I live, her screams, her fear, her pain, and the fact that she was completely alone. I wanted to kill those bloody doctors who were supposed to be taking care of her. Yeah, I wanted to kill them, and she was helpless because they were holding her down, holding her legs apart and prying into her; it was just another rape, dammit! She didn’t speak French and they didn’t give a shit because she was a foreigner. I also wanted to kill the bloody bastard who’d raped her. Your precious husband, I believe.”

Sydney felt the shock of surprise, then calmed herself. She remembered Valerie telling her how Taylor loved France, how he was there two or three times a year. How he’d even been in an accident there once—years ago, and had broken his arm and been in a hospital—

She tried to keep her voice down, keep it smooth and calm, but it was tough. “I wasn’t with her in the emergency room. I was a bit over the edge myself at the time. Hysterical, I guess, though I hate to think of that word being applied to me. And the bloody bastard who raped her is doing nicely. He still likes young girls. He’s still got enough money to command a steady supply and charming enough so that rape isn’t necessary for him. He only seems to have problems when he leaves Italy. And that only once, with my little sister here, in Paris. I don’t pay much attention anymore. If it makes you feel any better, Taylor, I shot him. I did save her. A pity, but he pulled through.”

It was hard to stay calm, difficult not to strangle her. “If that was supposed to be an apology, it’s sadly lacking. Even as an excuse, it sucks. Maybe you can explain why you shot him and then turned around and accused Lindsay of seducing him. For God’s sake, didn’t you see him raping her?”

Sydney shrugged.

“Why did you turn around and attack her? Why did you let her father attack her? That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

“Stop being so melodramatic. For God’s sake, things are and were very complicated, particularly at that time.” Taylor watched her toss her coat over a hospital chair. She tossed her black purse on top of the coat. She walked back to the window. They were on the eleventh floor. “It’s very dark out,” she said after a moment. “I hate winter. It was very dark out even at five-thirty. I do hate the blackness.”

“Complications come out of lies. The truth is usually very simple.”

She turned. “A truism, Taylor? You really don’t know anything, you’re only guessing.”

“What do you want here, Sydney?”

Sydney suddenly smiled. “I called our father and told him Lindsay had been in an accident, evidently a very bad one. Would you like to know what he said? He asked me if Lindsay was going to live. I told him I didn’t know, didn’t have any details on her condition. He told me to call him immediately when I found out. If she was going to die, why, then, he would inherit all her money, and he needed to get the legalities under way.”

He was cold with rage. “And what did you say, Sydney?”

Sydney laughed. “Why, I told him I would call him back, naturally.”

“Her plastic surgeon is a Dr. Perry. Her other doctor is named Shantel. You may want to speak directly to Perry and to her. Lindsay will live, Sydney. She’s got broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and her face—I understand the bones were crushed but she’ll be all right. Be sure to tell her father that, won’t you? Tell the bastard for me that he can fuck his legalities. Tell him for me that if he comes near her, I’ll flatten him.”

“You don’t care for me much, do you, Taylor?”

“No.”

“You really shouldn’t hate her father. You don’t know him.”

“I don’t want to know him. He’s a shit.”

“You cared for Valerie, didn’t you? You were with her for three months?”

He said brutally, “I enjoyed fucking her, but only for a while. She was too possessive, too selfish. She had no control over herself. She was like a spoiled child who wanted everything her own way. I met Lindsay, and Valerie ceased to exist. I told Lindsay you reminded me of Valerie.”

Sydney picked up her coat and slipped her arms into it. She strode toward the door, her hand out for the knob, when she turned and said, “What happened to Lindsay’s face?”

“A falling beam struck her directly.”

She looked at him curiously. “Valerie told me how you enjoyed just looking at her because she was so beautiful. Lindsay isn’t in her league. What does she have now to hold you?”

“You seemed to think her money would hold anyone.”

“Perhaps, but it didn’t work for Valerie.”

“No.”

“Well, then?”

He went still, deeply and utterly silent.

She smiled. “Ah, perhaps it’s pity for the sparrow with the broken wing? Don’t you think so, Taylor? That fades, pathetic things always do, and all that’s left is the damned sparrow and it still has a broken wing. And your guilt because you aren’t interested anymore.”

Surprisingly, Taylor smiled back at her, a smile cold and taunting as hers. “I find you amazing, Sydney. I find your father amazing. You know something else? The real pity is that none of us can choose who our relatives are. I’d say that Lindsay got all the black cards in the deck.” He turned back to Lindsay then, and didn’t move until he heard the door close.

It was ten o’clock the following morning. Lindsay was awake and in pain. Taylor was going crazy watching her trying to control it. Finally the nurse gave her more medication. She fell into a light sleep. The nurse told him it was the facial swelling that was causing most of the pain.

He was on the point of going to their apartment to shower and change clothes when Sergeant Barry Kinsley of Manhattan South walked into the room.

“Jesus,” Taylor said, staring at his old sergeant. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

“Taylor? A shock, my boy, but at my age there shouldn’t be any more shocks. Why are you here? You know the lady?”

“She’s my fiancée. She’s sleeping right now. What are you doing here, Barry?”

“Official, Taylor, very official. Someone tried to kill the lady. The explosion wasn’t an accident, it was a bomb, one of those neat little plastic numbers, and it was detonated from about twenty yards away. She was right there, leaning against that ski lift, when someone detonated the explosive. No one else was anywhere near. A setup, straightforward, no muss, no fuss. Clean, sweet.”

Taylor saw red. “Excuse me a minute, Barry.” He ran out of the room.